


and from your grace, i fell

by TheDragon



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Post-Magic Reveal, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:34:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21553108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDragon/pseuds/TheDragon
Summary: “Where’s Merlin?” he asks the maid. “Where’s that idiot of a Court Sorcerer?!”“Begging your pardon, Your Majesty. I thought you knew,” the maid replies, not daring to look him in the eyes. “He’s taken ill.”“And he couldn’t be bothered to tell me himself that he would be unable to attend today’s council meeting?” Arthur questions, voice full of acid.“He hasn’t woken since he collapsed two days ago, Sire,” the maidservant says, blissfully unaware that what she’s saying the power to stop Arthur’s heart in its tracks.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 64
Kudos: 1369
Collections: Finish that Fic Merlin!





	and from your grace, i fell

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank my beta, schweet_heart, for going over the first draft of this fic all the way back at the beginning of July (has it been over four months already?!), and I apologise in advance for anything I ended up butchering in this final version.
> 
> Also, hooray! I finally finished this and published it! I think I deserve to give myself a pat on the back. Originally, I hadn't thought I'd end up writing a second draft; the plan was to edit what I could and post it. But. Welp. Here I am.
> 
> Read the end notes for warnings!

Merlin hasn’t bothered to show his face at the council meeting.

It’s a small infraction, and yet it makes Arthur’s blood boil like nothing else has. The second the assembly comes to an end, he’s out of his seat and exiting the room before anyone else has had time to rise.

The door bangs loudly against the wall as Arthur pushes it open, startling a passing maid so much that she drops the load of laundry she’s carrying. Arthur can’t bring himself to care about the fallen clothes; his mind is set on finding out Merlin’s current whereabouts, and the woman in front of him is the person who will have the misfortune of answering his questions.

“Where’s Merlin?” he asks her. The maid stares at him, eyes wide with no small amount of fear and confusion, so he does his best to school his expression. “Where’s that idiot of a Court Sorcerer?!”

“Begging your pardon, Your Majesty. I thought you knew,” the maid replies, not daring to look him in the eyes. “He’s taken ill.”

Ill. The complete buffoon has managed to fall ill, and at a time as significant as this. The fury simmers in Arthurs gut for a few more seconds, but slowly dissipates to annoyance as he takes a deep breath.

“And he couldn’t be bothered to tell me himself that he would be unable to attend today’s council meeting?” Arthur questions, voice full of acid, as it has been ever since the day he discovered Merlin had magic. He was a liar, a coward, and a traitor then, and it seems that he’s no better now. Arthur might have brought magic back to the land, but he still hasn’t forgiven Merlin for keeping from him something so important. Something so dangerous.

Something so _treasonous_.

The only reason Merlin has his position at court is because Arthur needs an authority on magic, and Merlin is the only such person he knows that can be entrusted with Camelot’s wellbeing. He is the _only_ person suitable to the role, except it would seem that he’s seen fit to fall ill right when Camelot needs him most.

At a time when, loathe as he would be to admit it, Arthur needs him most.

“He hasn’t woken since he collapsed two days ago, Sire,” the maidservant says, blissfully unaware that what she’s saying the power to stop Arthur’s heart in its tracks.

“W-what?” The words are barely able to pass through the lump that’s suddenly appeared in his throat. “How have I not been informed of this?!”

The maid looks up at him hesitantly and tightens her grip on the laundry basket so much that her knuckles turn white.

“Everyone thought you knew.”

~oOo~

Arthur stops in front of the door to Merlin’s new chambers, inconveniently located as far away as possible from Arthur’s own. He was the one to enforce the distance between them, and now he’s starting to regret that decision.

He raises his hand to knock on the door, but he can’t bring himself to actually rap his knuckles against the wood. He’s not sure if he can go inside. Two days, the maid said. Merlin’s been unconscious for two days. He collapsed. He hasn’t woken since.

Arthur nervously licks his lips. What if he’s too late? What if Merlin is already dead? What if he died in the night, and no one thought to tell Arthur, convinced that he already knew? Convinced he wouldn’t want to see Merlin anyway? That he wouldn’t even bother to show up at the funeral? It breaks his heart to think that this is what all those years of friendship, of practically living in each others pockets, have amounted to.

His hand drops back to his side, and he has to fight to ignore uncomfortable churning of his stomach. Every single part of him seems to be shouting at him, telling him to go back to his chambers or the throne room or the practice field, to pretend that none of this is real—that Merlin is alive and well and simply avoiding him because he knows how much Arthur can no longer stand to look at him.

He closes his eyes, brings his hands up to his face, and takes a deep breath. He _can’t_ leave; he has to go in. He needs to know in just how bad a condition Merlin is.

Arthur is in the process of bringing his hand back up to knock at the door when it suddenly opens and Gwen stumbles out. Her hair is in disarray, her normally pristine clothes are rumpled, and her face is stained with tears. The sight of them stops Arthur dead in his tracks.

“Arthur?” she asks, barely managing to avoid crashing into him.

“Guinevere,” he replies, but his eyes are no longer on her. He’s in a panic now, craning his head to look into the room, hoping that he might, against all odds, catch sight of Merlin alive and well.

Failing that, of Merlin simply _breathing_.

Gwen seems caught off guard by his presence and stands in front of him—staring at him—for what seems like hours before she speaks again.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, her voice strained. She moves to block the doorway with her body, as if she’s trying to keep Arthur from going inside.

It hurts. It all hurts, and it does nothing to dissipate the feeling of terror slowly swelling in his chest, making it harder to breathe with each second that passes.

“I’m here to see Merlin,” Arthur says, his own voice small and uncharacteristically quiet. “I came to see how he’s doing.”

Gwen’s eyes flash with rage.

“Now, after two days?” she hisses, startling him into taking a step back; he doesn’t recall ever having seen her this furious. “You couldn’t be bothered to come sooner?”

“No, Guinevere, I—“ Arthur tries to say, but he’s quickly interrupted.

“He was your friend, Arthur! And ever since you discovered his magic, you’ve treated him as if he’s worth no more than the dirt beneath your boots!”

“W-was?” Arthur asks, startled. “He’s—“ He can’t do it, he can’t get the words out, not when Gwen is talking about Merlin in the past tense, like he’s not alive anymore—like he’s died, died and no one had told Arthur because everyone thought that he already knew, that he wouldn’t care anyways so what did it matter? “He’s not dead.” Damn the gods, his voice is breaking. “Please, Guinevere, tell me he’s alive!”

Gwen stares at him for a moment, tears bright in her eyes and on her cheeks. Arthur doesn’t know what it is she sees on his face, but it makes her expression soften.

“He’s alive,” she confirms. Arthur’s legs almost give out from the sheer relief that floods him. He’s just about to push past Gwen and into the room, desperate to see Merlin moving and breathing for himself, but then Gwen continues speaking. “He stopped breathing once, this night.”

“He what?” Arthur whispers, eyes wide with disbelief. He tries to say something, but the lump is back in his throat and he finds he can no longer get any words out.

“I had to breathe for him, Arthur! He’s alive, but he’s not… he’s not fine,” Gwen says, hands gripping his upper arms as though she’s begging him to understand something. “I’m afraid to leave the room. I fear that if I take my eyes off him for a second, it will happen again.”

“I’ll stay with him,” Arthur immediately volunteers. “I can stay, keep an eye on him. I know what to do if— if—“ He can’t say it. His tongue doesn’t seem to be working; he can’t force the words from his lungs, through his throat and out his lips.

Slowly, Gwen nods and relinquishes the grip she has on him. She looks him up and down once, twice, then finally moves aside and allows him to enter the room.

Merlin is lying on the bed, covers tucked in all around him. He could have been sleeping, if not for the grimace twisting his lips and the faint sheen of sweat that covers his body. He’s pale, except for the redness in his cheeks; much paler than Arthur has ever seen him to be. Paler than he was on those nights when he hadn’t been able to get enough rest because of yet another threat to the kingdom. Paler than he has been most every day of these last few weeks because Arthur knows his secret now, and Arthur rejected him, called him a traitor and a liar, and then in the same breath went on to name him Court Sorcerer.

Arthur’s legs move of their own accord, and within a moment, he’s standing at Merlin’s bedside, heart full of fear for Merlin’s wellbeing and regret for how he’s been treating him.

He didn’t mean it, not really. He didn’t mean all of those awful things he said. He didn’t mean it when he called Merlin a traitor, when he said he hated him. He was just angry that Merlin hadn’t told him before, that he hadn’t trusted Arthur with such an important part of himself.

He lashed out. He regretted the words the instant he said them, but he had too much pride to take them back.

But he should have. Now, Merlin is dying right in front of him, and the last words he heard from Arthur were about how little he cared for him.

Arthur doesn’t realise he’s crying, not until the wetness drips from his face and stains the bed sheets—and when he does finally notice, he realises that he can’t stop. One after another, the tears drip down his cheeks unimpeded. Merlin is still, so still that he could, for all intents and purposes, already be dead, and Arthur is suddenly overcome with the need to check his pulse, to make sure that he’s alive and breathing, that what Guinevere told him happened in the night isn’t happening again.

Arthur sits down at Merlin’s side and puts his fingers to his neck.

There’s a pulse, thank the gods—the knowledge alone has him calming slightly—but it’s weak and irregular. Merlin’s skin is clammy and hot to the touch. Arthur reaches out to brush Merlin’s fringe away from his forehead and smooths down the thin sheet covering his body in an attempt to make him more comfortable.

Gwen comes up behind him with a bucket of water and a rag. She offers them to him and Arthur takes them without a second of hesitation. He places the bucket beside the bed and dips the cloth in the cool water before bringing it up to Merlin’s face to try to cool him down.

“I didn’t know,” Arthur whispers, unsure if he’s talking to Gwen, Merlin, or himself. “No one told me. I had no idea.”

Gwen says nothing, does nothing. She stands next to him and watches as Arthur swipes the wet cloth over Merlin’s forehead, across his cheeks, down his neck, his collarbones.

“How did it happen?” Arthur asks, even though he’s not entirely sure he wants to know the answer. Gwen puts a hand on his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him and sighs when Arthur shrugs it off.

“It was after he finished putting up the protective runes, the night of the battle,” Gwen says. “He barely managed to get himself back to the castle before collapsing. He was immediately brought here and I was called on to attend him.

“Who found him?” Who was it? Who found Merlin half-dead and didn’t even think to let Arthur know about his condition? What did it matter that there was a battle going on? As king, he should have been told, if not during the battle, then immediately after it.

Merlin would have made sure he was told, had it been anyone else that had collapsed. Merlin would have realised Arthur would want to know.

Except Merlin is lying before him, barely breathing.

“One of the servants.” Gwen’s statement is followed by a moment of silence. “I thought you had been told.”

“I hadn’t,” Arthur replies bitterly. He bites down on his lip, tries to stamp down the growing anger, and instead asks, “Do we know what’s wrong with him?”

Gwen wrings her hands, her expression turning into something more nervous and uncertain.

“I’m not sure. He’d been exhausted ever since your fight, beating himself up over the fact that he hadn’t told you sooner and ruined your friendship. I think the sheer amount of magic he used before the battle must have been the breaking point.”

“Gaius would know,” Arthur murmurs. He doesn’t mean to sound accusatory; it’s the fact of the matter. Gaius would have known what was wrong with Merlin and how to help him.

Gaius is dead. They lost him during the battle.

Arthur’s heart breaks when he realises that Merlin doesn’t know, that he wouldn’t have had the chance to find out because he’s been unconscious ever since.

“I need to fetch some more water,” Gwen says. “And medication.”

Arthur nods and listens to the sound of her footsteps as she walks away.

He isn’t going anywhere.

~oOo~

Arthur hasn’t tried to get so much as a wink of sleep despite the fact that it’s now the middle of the night. He can’t bring himself to close his eyes for more than a split second, too worried that when he opens them again, Merlin won’t be breathing anymore.

Merlin hasn’t moved so much as an inch in all the time Arthur has spent at his bedside. He’s lying on the bed, just as still and listless as he was a few hours ago. The more time passes, the more the complete lack of movement worries Arthur. There’s a voice in his head, growing louder by the minute, that keeps telling him Merlin might stay asleep forever.

Arthur tries to drown it out.

Gwen returned to the room a while ago, wanting to care for Merlin almost as much as Arthur does. She’s sleeping on a cot she had brought in yesterday, but her face is marred with worry lines, and the fact that she keeps twitching and moving and turning from side to side tells Arthur that her dreams aren’t being kind to her.

He looks away for a split second, no more, but that’s all it takes. He turns back when he hears rustling and sees Merlin’s body jerking uncontrollably. His limbs are flailing and his eyes are rolling back in his head. The fear that Arthur’s been feeling grows tenfold, a hundredfold, a _thousandfold_ , and before he knows it, he’s standing up and calling for Gwen.

His blood feels like it’s been replaced with ice and he can’t seem to move to the side when Gwen asks him to, not until she pushes him away. He watches, overwhelmed by the sheer terror coursing through his veins, as she crouches down in the small space above Merlin and grips his head between her thighs to prevent him from banging it against the headboard.

The fit lasts no more than a few minutes, but it feels like a lifetime to Arthur.

“I think it’s over,” Gwen finally murmurs, moving off the bed once she’s sure he’s stopped convulsing. “He should be all right for now.”

Arthur still can’t bring himself to move from where he’s standing.

~oOo~

It’s nearing dawn when Merlin’s breath hitches and two of his fingers twitch. For a moment, Arthur fears that he’s going to have another fit, but thankfully, it doesn’t go there. Instead, Merlin starts tossing and turning in bed. He throws off the bedcovers, manages to tangle his legs in the sheets, and dumps most of the pillows onto the floor in an attempt to get more comfortable.

It almost makes Arthur laugh. As is, he allows a small, private smile to grace his lips; it’s not like anyone can see him, and even if they did, he feels so relieved that he wouldn’t care. The sight of Merlin moving around on his own takes a large weight off his chest, and he’s able to breathe freely for the first time since he found out about Merlin’s condition.

The only thing that would make this moment any better would be Merlin waking up.

But Merlin doesn’t. He keeps twisting around on the bed, except that when he turns to face Arthur, there’s a frown marring his face and tears spilling out from under his eyelids. When his mouth opens in a wordless gasp, Arthur reaches out and takes one of Merlin’s hands into his own.

“Srr—“ Merlin mumbles. He’s quiet and his voice is hoarse; Arthur can barely hear him despite the all-consuming silence. “Sorry. ‘M sorry,” Merlin repeats, sounding increasingly desperate the more often he repeats the word. When Arthur moves his other hand to Merlin’s head and smooths back some of his hair, Merlin temporarily quiets down.

He starts whimpering when Arthur’s hand ceases its movements.

“Didn’t lie,” he groans. “Didn’t.

“Was scared.

“‘M sorry.

“You hate me,” he finally cries out, unknowingly breaking Arthur’s heart in two. Arthur lets his hand land on Merlin’s cheek, lets it caress the fever-hot skin he finds there, allows it to wipe away the tears slowly making their way down Merlin’s face.

“I love you,” Merlin whispers, and this time, it’s Arthur’s turn to cry.

~oOo~

When Merlin finally awakens, the evening sun is streaming into the room through the windows, casting everything in a warm glow. Gwen is absent, having left to take care of the chores she’d been neglecting in order to tend to Merlin. She absolutely deserves some time to herself after the events of the past few days.

Merlin’s eyes open almost at the exact second the rays land on them, as if all this time, he’d been waiting for them to do just that. Arthur watches silently, stroking his thumb over the back of Merlin’s hand as he blinks slowly, taking in his surroundings.

“Merlin?” Arthur asks, hesitant. Merlin’s eyes land on him, and the relief that floods him is so overwhelming that it feels as though he might drown in it.

Merlin smiles when he sees him. It’s nothing more than a slight upward twitch of his lips and a crinkle in the corners of his eyes, but it’s the best thing Arthur’s ever seen.

Except.

Except it doesn’t last long. The smile fades away after a few second to be replaced with tension and discomfort, and Merlin’s gaze slides to the side so that he’s looking past Arthur instead of at him.

“Merlin?” Arthur asks again, this time worriedly. The concern only grows when Merlin doesn’t reply.

It doesn’t dissipate even once he does.

“Sire?” Merlin asks hoarsely, still determinedly avoiding his gaze.

“Are you—“ Arthur starts, but quickly breaks off, unsure of how to continue. “How are you feeling?” He caresses Merlin’s hand in an attempt to calm his own nerves, but once Merlin realises what Arthur is doing, he instantly pulls away.

“I’m fine,” Merlin says crossly, trying to push himself into a sitting position. Arthur goes to help him, but Merlin jerks away from his touch as though it burns. Hurt, Arthur moves his hands to his lap and watches helplessly as Merlin struggles.

He gives up eventually, cheeks burning red and eyes watering with humiliation. He’s panting as though he’s just run up ten flights of stairs. Arthur’s arms ache to move, to assist, to comfort, _anything_ , but he keeps them by his side because Merlin clearly doesn’t want them anywhere near him.

“What happened?” Merlin asks once he’s finally able to catch his breath, keeping his eyes firmly on the bedcovers stretched over him. “Why do I feel so weak?”

“You collapsed,” Arthur tells him. “Tw—Three days ago, you collapsed.”

_And I thought you weren’t going to wake up._

Merlin blinks once, then twice more, slow to comprehend in his muddled state what it is that he’s hearing. When he finally does make sense of it, he’s so startled that his eyes dart to meet Arthur’s own.

“The battle?” Merlin asks, staring at him imploringly. “Was it the battle? What happened? We won, didn’t we—?”

He fires off one question after another, so many that it makes Arthur’s head swirl; he raises his hand to get Merlin to slow down.

Merlin’s mouth shuts with an audible snap, and he lowers his eyes so that he’s staring at Arthur’s collarbones rather than his face. Again.

Arthur licks his lips nervously as he steels himself for what he needs to say.

“We won,” he tells Merlin. “Thanks to your wards. They told us where Morgana’s men were trying to get in. Very few of them did until she showed up to help, though.”

“That’s…” Merlin trails off. “That’s good, then.”

“That’s not everything,” Arthur says, then clears his throat. He spares a second to commit to memory the expression on Merlin’s face—the relief, the slight smile—but he knows he needs to push on. This conversation can’t wait any longer; it’s already been too long as is. “We lost Gaius.”

The change is instantaneous. Whatever little blood had been in Merlin’s cheeks abruptly disappears, leaving him pale, exhausted, and distressed.

“Lost?” he asks, any hint of emotion gone from his voice.

“He died,” Arthur confirms. “I’m so sorry, Merlin.”

“How?” Merlin asks, anguish turning his voice into something unrecognisable.

“He was defending his patients.”

All hell breaks loose as Merlin loses himself to his grief. There are tears and sobs, and there is wailing, but there are also windows shattering and wood splintering and goblets crashing to the ground, and Arthur sits there, terrified, because Merlin shouldn’t be using magic yet, not when it took so much out of him last time that he spent the better part of three days unconscious.

“Merlin!” Arthur shouts in alarm, but Merlin doesn’t react to him at all. Arthur ducks as something flies at him, missing his left eye by a fraction of an inch. “Merlin,” he repeats, putting his hand on Merlin’s shoulder and shaking it so hard that he moves Merlin back and forth on the bed.

One of Merlin’s bookcases crashes to the ground in a flurry of paper and wood. It startles Arthur so much that he leaps out of his seat, yet Merlin doesn’t so much as twitch where he’s lying on the bed in the foetal position. Arthur isn’t about to wait until the canopy collapses above them; he eases himself down onto the bed next to Merlin and gathers him into his arms, counting it as a victory when Merlin doesn’t flinch away.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he says, hoping to somehow get through to him. “I know he was like a father to you.”

“He was,” Merlin sobs into his shoulder. “He was the best father I could have asked for.”

Arthur strokes one hand down Merlin’s back and runs the other through his hair, and slowly, the flurry of movement around them comes to an end. Items stop flying off shelves and the collapsed bookshelf lets out one last groan before settling down.

When Merlin tenses in his arms and tries to twist out of Arthur’s hold, Arthur doesn’t let him go.

“I wanted to apologise,” he says, holding onto Merlin more tightly, revelling in the fact the he can feel Merlin’s heart beating beneath the palm of his hand.

“What for?” Merlin asks hoarsely, digging his fingers into the soft material of Arthur’s tunic.

“For the way I’ve been acting,” Arthur explains, his voice growing quieter with every word. “I’ve not been a very good friend to you.”

He half-expects Merlin to turn this around into a joke like he usually does, but instead, Merlin falls silent.

“You haven’t, no,” he says at long last, and the words hurt like a hundred tiny arrows piercing Arthur’s heart; it’s a pain that starts and doesn’t seem to want to stop, and the worst is the knowledge that it’s largely his own fault. “But I understand. I get it. I betrayed your trust and I never expec—“

“Could you shut up for a moment?” Arthur interrupts. “I’m trying to apologise.”

Merlin sniffles into his shoulder, but does as Arthur asks.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says. “I’ve been angry with you. I pushed you away. I… I didn’t even try to understand how hard it must have been for you, how terrified you must have been, living in a city where people like you are hunted down and slaughtered like animals. Serving someone you were convinced would see you dead if he found out who you really were.”

“I didn’t,” Merlin cuts in. “I mean. I didn’t think you’d kill me, not anymore. I just… I knew that if my secret ever got out, you’d hate me. I—“ He breaks off and grits his teeth.

“And you were right,” Arthur says, holding onto Merlin more tightly as he recoils. “But I was wrong. I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry I am about how I’ve been acting. You almost died and I… I realised that I couldn’t bear to lose you. I couldn’t bare the thought of you leaving this world thinking that I despise you when that’s the farthest thing from the truth.”

“Arthur…” Merlin whispers, looking up at him.

“Let me finish, please. I reacted badly because of the magic, yes, but also because the person I had entrusted my entire self to had kept something so important from me. And I—it hurt. It hurt that you didn’t trust me as much as I trusted you.”

“I do trust you. I do,” Merlin says. “But I was so terrified that you’d hate me that I just _couldn’t_ bring myself to tell you.”

“I’m so, _so_ sorry,” Arthur says, his own eyes beginning to fill with tears that he doesn’t want to let fall. “But there’s something else.”

Merlin tenses in his arms; Arthur runs his hand over his back to get him to relax.

“I know that this isn’t the right time, not with everything that’s happened over the last few days, but I need to tell you. The reason it all hurt me so much was because… because I love you. I’ve been in love with you for years, and I thought that maybe… maybe you could be in love with me too, except you never said anything, never did anything, and then I found out about the magic and I thought—“ he breaks off.

“You thought I’d enchanted you,” Merlin mutters, hiding his face in Arthur’s tunic, making sure that Arthur can’t see his expression.

“Yes, for a second. It didn’t last; I know you’re not that kind of person. Yet, for a moment, that thought entered my mind and it all spiralled.”

“I’d never do something like that,” Merlin says, voice breaking towards the end. “I’d never do that to anyone, least of all you. I wanted you to love me _for_ me, not because some spell was twisting your affections. I just didn’t think it could ever happen.”

“It could. It still can, if you want it to.”

“I do!” Merlin exclaims. “There’s nothing I want more, but. I need some time. Gaius is dead and I—“ he sobs again and tightens his grip on Arthur’s tunic. “A few days, that’s all I’m asking. Just give me a few days. Then we can talk about this again and I. We’ll figure this out.”

“Anything you want,” Arthur promises. “I’d give you the world, if I could.”

“I’d never ask that of you,” Merlin says.

“And yet,” Arthur replied, huffing out a breath. “I’d give it to you anyway.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **Warnings:** minor character death (Gaius)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] and from your grace, i fell](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28294224) by [Ceewelsh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceewelsh/pseuds/Ceewelsh)




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